Islands Unto Ourselves

By Gomathy Puri

Though this book is a work of fiction, it's written out of personal understanding of what it means, as a woman, to be an immigrant. In Islands Unto Ourselves Gomathy Puri opens a private window into the lives of two courageous women of very different backgrounds and aspirations. Here is an intimate glimpse into the immigrant experience: the loneliness and sense of dislocation, the shift in values and family relationships and the ensuing conflicts, the struggle to establish a new identity in an unfamiliar world. The intertwined lives of Kamala and Rekha, as they face the challenges of beginning over, make a compelling read. These are stories that we want to end well.

- Eileen Kernaghan
Author, Wild Talent

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gomathy Puri
• Release date: Nov 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310430886

Gomathy Puri

From a successful career in Civil Service, to an unsure future of a (novel) writer.After a long and mutually beneficial association of over 25 years with the governments of Manitoba and British Columbia, Gomathy Puri began her writing career in 2008 by joining different writer’s groups where she began to present her creative prose and short fiction. Encouraged by the response, Puri ventured in her first book-length work, a novel titled ‘Islands Unto Ourselves’.Gomathy continued to develop her craft from the feedback she recieved from her peers at Kyle Writing Group in Port Moody and New West Writers in New Westminster. Now at the end of 2011, her manuscript is complete, and she is preparing to submit to publishers.Puri writes humorous nonfiction, short fiction and poetry.‘From writing position papers for the government to writing novels has been a huge shift in both perspective and style,’ Gomathy says, ‘but it is the most interesting, challenging, and empowering experience for me.’Her writings have been selected for the upcoming anthology of New West Writers titled ‘Naked Crossings’ (ed. Valerie B.-Taylor), due to be published in 2012.Gomi, as she is popularly known among friends and family, worked for the department of Health and Social Services in Manitoba, and later, for Manitoba Health. She worked in Research and Planning, and as an Agency Relations Co-ordinator. In BC, she worked with the Ministry of Women’s Equality, serving as the Regional Co-ordinator for the Lower Mainland.While in Manitoba, Gomi represented the concerns of immigrant women on the Women and Mental Health Committee of the Canadian Mental Health Association. She also served as the Manitoba representative on the Federal/Provincial Committee on Women and Health, and drafted a position paper on the mental health issues specific to women. She was a founding member of the Immigrant Women’s Association of Manitoba, and participated in the first national conference that led to the establishment of the National Organisation of Immigrant and Visible Minority Women.Gomi holds a Master’s degree in Economics from the University of Edinburgh in Scotland.

Book preview

Spring is late coming to Winnipeg this year. A cold northerly wind gusts and swirls down the runways of the airport as the Air Canada flight from Rome touches down and makes its way to the terminal. Passengers can see the leafless branches of trees in the distance waving wildly, while the few airport employees out on the tarmac clutch at their caps and scarves.

It is cold out there. Welcome to Winnipeg.

Kamala looks around her, feeling apprehension, hope and relief all at once. After months of preparation, uncertainty and fear of the unknown, they are here at last. It has been only forty-eight hours since they left Calcutta, stopping briefly at Rome to change planes, but it seems much longer.

Despite the weather outside, Winnipeg airport has a welcoming atmosphere about it. Kamala is clutching Priya’s hand tighter than necessary. Her eight-year-old daughter struggles in her grasp, unaware of the apprehension her mother is feeling.

Kamala looks up at the signs posted everywhere, trying to orient herself, to find a safe lifeline into this new world. Immediately behind her, her husband Rakesh also has a tight grip on his son’s hand. But Anil seems unconcerned and is watching, with all of a twelve-year-old’s fascination, a porter pushing along a lengthy train of luggage carts. Unlike his parents, he does not notice that the people around him are different, that there are no brown-skinned faces to be seen anywhere. Nor is he aware that his family is being scrutinized by the others standing in line; their curious stares are lost on him.

They follow the crowd into the immigration control area, and Rakesh pulls out passports and immigration papers. The officer manning the booth looks up at them and smiles at the children.

Everything seems to be in order, Mr. Sinha, he says, handing the documents back to Rakesh. They walk through the gates into a new and unknown world. At one point the thought crosses Kamala’s mind that their lives are like cleanly wiped slates, waiting for new stories to be written on them.

~

Chandran is waiting just outside as the family emerges from the customs area. It is with a sense of relief, more than anything else, that Kamala greets her cousin, and watches as he welcomes the others.

Malini and the kids are waiting at home, Chandran says. He takes over one of the two luggage carts they have and guides them to his car. You must be very tired after such a long flight. You didn’t have much of a stopover in Rome, did you? Just a few hours?

Yes, it was a tiring trip. Kamala is feeling a little overwhelmed. She looks around her, at the bustle of activity, the newness of it all, and is suddenly frightened, struck by the enormity of what they have undertaken.

The children are looking forward to meeting their cousins from India, Chandran says, to no one in particular. Kamala is aware that he senses their discomfort. But she wants him to know how thankful they are for the hospitality he and his wife have offered, and says so.

The drive from the airport to Chandran’s house is a blur. Although it is early afternoon in Winnipeg, rain and mist have shrouded many of the buildings they pass. The fog seems to penetrate deep into Kamala’s mind. She is in the back seat of the car with Anil and Priya, and Rakesh is in the passenger seat beside Chandran. He is chatting with Chandran and seems quite animated. They have always gotten along well, thinks Kamala. Chandran had visited them many times in Calcutta before he and his family came to Canada, and they’d had much to talk about then, just as they seem to now. Kamala is too tired to focus on what they’re saying.

Over the next several days, Chandran and Malini do their utmost to help their newly arrived relatives acclimatize to the changes they’re experiencing. They drive them around the city, pointing out various landmarks, helping them figure out bus routes, and encouraging them to explore a little on their own.

I’m going to Safeway to do grocery shopping, Malini says to Kamala one morning, a few days after their arrival. Why don’t you come with me?

Kamala goes with Malini, and is pleasantly surprised by everything she sees at the grocery store. Row upon row of brightly coloured produce, an infinite variety of cereals, meats and cheeses packaged and presented in appealing ways – all reflect a prosperity and abundance that Kamala has never seen anywhere before. She picks up a few items here and there and checks the prices.

Look at these prices, Malini. That package of cheese is about forty rupees! How can anyone afford to buy these things?

Malini laughs. You have to stop converting dollar prices to rupees, she says. Just think of a dollar as a rupee.

Kamala doesn’t say anything, although she knows it’ll be a long while before she gets used to looking at prices differently. She thinks of the bazaars in the little towns where they had lived, in the industrial belt around Calcutta. The rickshaw man would wait patiently while she haggled with shopkeepers over the prices of lentils and rice. The other memsahibs rarely went to the bazaars, preferring to send their servants. Kamala, however, liked to see life as it played out in the bustees– the dilapidated slums where the mill workers lived, so different from the privileged lives of the officers and their families within their walled compounds.

Here, however, everything is pristine, spotless, and it makes her a little nervous. She doesn’t want to embarrass Malini by saying or doing the wrong thing, so she quietly follows her around the store.

~

Kamala had not expected that everything would seem so very different. She had assumed that having lived in Britain during their university years, she and Rakesh would adjust quickly and smoothly to Canada. She soon realized that the adjustment would not be easy. This was a different setting, a different era, quite unlike the post-war Britain she had known. Besides, now there were children to think about, and the urgent need to find employment. Most of all, she sorely missed the warmth and brightness of the tropical sunshine, the vibrancy of colour and sound to which she was accustomed. She felt strangely adrift in this new environment, and searched for familiar footholds to anchor herself.

It seems so quiet here, she said to Rakesh one evening, as they sat in the living room of Chandran’s home. We seldom hear a sound, even outside the house. And such few people – where are all the people?

Anil and Priya also seemed withdrawn. Priya had been offended when her cousin Meena made fun of the cotton dresses she wore, the frocks they had had specially made by a fashionable tailor in Calcutta.

No one wears clothes like that here, Meena had said. And Priya had come crying to her mother, saying she hated her clothes and wouldn’t go out to play because everyone would laugh at her. Kamala suspected that her son, Anil, also felt out of place, but he would never have admitted it to her, just bottled up his frustrations.

You know, Rakesh, the children are feeling really lost. They seem to be noticing the differences between themselves and other children, so different from their friends in India, Kamala said to her husband.

It’s all part of the transition, Rakesh replied. In a few days they’ll get used to the changes and forget all this teasing from their cousins.

Kamala did, however, put away the dresses she had brought for Priya and went clothes shopping with Malini. They picked out a few summer outfits for the children. The tailored clothes from India were replaced with shorts and t-shirts, which seemed to make the children a little more comfortable in their new surroundings. To Kamala it seemed like a terrible waste.

When the cold weather comes you’ll need very different clothes for them. So we’d better wait and see what they’ll need when school starts in September, Malini said.

If this is summer, I don’t know how I’m going to make it through winter, Kamala had sighed. A cold northerly wind, even a few flakes of snow – in May! – had disheartened her.

It’ll get quite hot in a few weeks, Malini had said, you’ll see!

And it had. It was as though everything suddenly changed overnight. By early June fresh green leaves appeared on trees. A riot of colour brightened the gardens of neighbourhood homes. Southerly breezes brought mellow weather, and Kamala’s spirits picked up considerably.

Chandran and Malini introduced their relatives to several of their friends, and the family was invited out many times to dinners and parties. Kamala loved the informal entertaining style of the barbecue. She contrasted it with the stress she went through in India when entertaining friends at a dinner party. That had involved days of planning, detailed instructions to the cook, setting out of the best china, glasses and silverware – all of which would be noticed and remembered by the guests. Kamala would mostly end up a nervous wreck. Here, in Winnipeg, she admired the ease with which Malini picked up the needed supplies on the morning of a barbecue, and set it all up an hour before the guests arrived. Everyone pitched in and had a really good time.

The sense of open spaces interspersed throughout the city was also something new. They had not experienced that either in London, with its busy streets, nor in Calcutta with its frantic crowds. The fresh greenery of summer, the tall leafy trees, bright sunlight glinting off the leaves – it all brought to Kamala’s mind the wide open spaces around the home in Trivandrum, in India’s deep south, where she had run around as a child. She remarked to Chandran one day that, sitting amongst the trees in his yard, it almost felt like she was in Trivandrum.

Everything will appear different when winter comes around, he replied, looking up at the leafy branches. The trees will be bare and brown. But winter has its own beauty.

I’m dreading it, she said. Can’t imagine how I’ll manage.

Chandran looked at his cousin, who, like him, had the dark complexion of equatorial people, and was not remarkably attractive. There was, however, a verve and energy about her eyes, which seemed always ready to laugh in delight and wonder at the world around her. Strength and confidence were what her manners and personality suggested. Sitting there, framed by the trees, she reminded him of those strong Kerala women of their grandmother’s generation they’d both grown up amongst – women who could face and overcome any challenge.

I think you’ll manage quite well, Kamala, he said.

~

Summer was a busy time for Kamala and Rakesh, both having started looking for employment. They had come prepared to accept any kind of work, and knew there would be a struggle in attempting to put down roots in a new environment. Chandran helped them prepare resumés, and had many suggestions regarding how to go about job hunting.

In years to come, Kamala would often think about those early days of their arrival in Canada. She would marvel at how they had survived those initial weeks, even with all the help from their cousins. They had been fortunate, she often said to herself. They had somehow escaped the intense trauma many immigrants experience. Within a few weeks of arrival they had both found jobs and been able to rent a small apartment. Somehow things had fallen into place. Chandran had even found a babysitter who would watch the children in the afternoons when they came home from school.

They were, of course, careful, budgeting every dollar and making sure not to buy anything superfluous. They bought only essential pieces of furniture, mostly from second-hand stores. Malini had given them an old couch and chair for their family room, and they purchased a small television set around which they gathered every evening. This they considered a great luxury.

Isn’t it amazing how quickly the children have adapted to their new lives? Kamala said to Rakesh one evening, after the children had gone to bed. It was not often they had time for conversation. There was so much to do, from the moment they got up at dawn till they dropped into bed at night, exhausted. Life seemed like a carousel from which they could never step down.

Mrs. Bishop has been a great help, Rakesh said. She has shown the children how to do things around the house. Indeed, the babysitter had proved to be a great support for them in many ways, and without her help it would have been impossible. She had managed to persuade Anil to take on the job of vacuuming the house, while Priya was placed in charge of small chores such as dusting and tidying. Anil even learnt to do little things around the kitchen, such as making his own lunches. This boy, who had always had servants to attend to all his needs, was actually learning to do things for himself.

Kamala, however, often thought of the maid who had worked for her in Calcutta, and sorely missed her. That early morning tray of tea and biscuits that waited for her when she awoke at dawn, the cheerful smile that greeted the kids when they got home from school, the care with which all the household tasks were quietly and efficiently managed – Chandni had managed everything, with Kamala hardly even noticing how efficiently she had run the home! Saying goodbye to Chandni was one of the hardest things they’d had to do when they left for Canada.

Please take me with you, Chandni had pleaded, tears flowing down her cheeks. Kamala had explained how that wouldn’t be possible because of Canada’s strict immigration laws, but Chandni had not understood. Kamala was left feeling helpless, with a sense of having somehow betrayed the confidence of this trusting young woman, even though she knew Chandni would be well looked after by the family with whom she would now be living.

~

Time passed very quickly that first year in Winnipeg. All the angst the children had felt starting school in a new environment, Kamala’s morning rush to catch the bus to work, Rakesh’s intense dislike of the job he had as a supervisor in a canning factory but his acceptance of the daily grind – somehow all these different pieces had been made to fit into a manageable pattern.

I’ve been trained to work as an industrial engineer, Rakesh said to Kamala one evening. There are many things that could be improved in the factory, but all they expect me to do is to make sure the workers are at their jobs, punch in their time sheets and don’t take longer than approved breaks. It is frustrating beyond measure.

Maybe when they get to know you a little better, you’ll be able to use more of your skills, Kamala had said. She had walked over to him and put her arms around him, wishing him to know she understood how he felt.

I’ll continue working there because we need the money, he had said, stroking her hair, holding her close. But I’ll keep looking for other openings.

She heard the edge in his voice, the disappointment at having to work at a job for which he was clearly greatly overqualified. After the management positions he had held in India, this was no doubt demeaning to him; yet he had accepted that it was something he had to do for the sake of the family. For that she was grateful. She ran loving fingers over her husband’s handsome face, tracing the elegant arch of brow and cheek. She noticed the traces of grey that had begun to show at his temples, and wondered quietly whether he would become disillusioned, discouraged.

When Rakesh came home one evening and said he was planning to buy a car, it made Kamala nervous.

It’s an old Pontiac, but in very good condition. I’ll ask Chandran to take a look at it as well. We’re going to need a car, Kamala. Taking the bus all the time is simply not practical in Winnipeg. You know how difficult it is to do our grocery shopping each week, especially in winter – trudging through all that snow with bags of groceries and struggling to get on the bus!

Kamala understood how important this was to him, so she didn’t object when he used all their sparse savings to buy the car. She took driving lessons and obtained a licence, but it was mainly Rakesh who drove the car. It seemed to alleviate some of his frustrations with his job, though Kamala couldn’t exactly explain why. She was thankful, however, that her family had made a relatively painless transition through the challenges they had faced during their first year in Canada.

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Chapter 2

Spring 1971

awakening

It is a crisp March morning in Winnipeg. Kamala is negotiating her way through the ridges of frozen ice along the sidewalks bordering the building where she works. She is dressed in a dark green silk sari, and over that she wears a cardigan and a heavy overcoat. Saris are difficult to manage when getting in and out of buses and tend to fray at the edges with the salt and the snow. One of these days she intends to go down to Eaton’s and pick out some slacks and blouses that she can wear to work. It is, however, a difficult transition for her to make. It’s almost like a makeover of one’s personality, because clothes are such an important part of one’s persona.

She is offended at having been told, by one of the senior officials at the federal department where she works as a contract employee, that the sari is not an appropriate form of dress for an employee.

We deal with the public a great deal, and a woman in a sari does not inspire confidence, this official had said. It was like a slap to her face, a demeaning thing to say.

Kamala had fretted and puzzled over it for several days, wondering if it was true, and if so, what she should do about it. No doubt there were people who would assume, seeing a woman dressed in a sari, that here was an employee who didn’t, couldn’t possibly, know what she was doing. But the colleagues she worked with every day – all junior staff – had accepted her as she was. She got on well with them. It was all a matter of getting to know someone, seeing beyond their colour and their clothing, and this could happen only with continuing exposure to different kinds of people. Or so she believed, although not everyone seemed to think that way.

Kamala stops at the cafeteria, gets herself a cup of coffee and takes it to her desk. She is working on a research project related to certain facets of the oil industry in Canada, and has found it absorbing. Given her background in economics, this project has helped her grasp important aspects of the Canadian economy. She is grateful to Jeffrey, her boss, who has not only hired her but given her this particular project to work on, one that will provide her with some of the Canadian background and experience many employers look for. In the early years of her career in India, prior to marriage and children, she had worked as a researcher with a prestigious organization. As a woman starting out, she had received a mere pittance in salary. But she had valued the work opportunities and the chance to prove she could successfully carry the workload. Now, restarting her career in Canada, she realizes she needs to prove herself all over again.

~

It was quiet that morning, senior staff members being away at a seminar. Kamala liked it at the office when it was quiet, as she could focus better. Although she had gradually felt more comfortable over the nine months she had worked here, she still did not feel completely at ease. Her qualifications were as good as those of most of the senior staff, but some of them treated her as though she were part of the furniture. They never stopped to ask how she was getting along with her work, nor did she get any opportunities to discuss, with any of them, the various projects they were working on. Except Jeffrey, the director of the division, who had always been kind and considerate to all the people who worked here.

Kamala didn’t feel any particular animosity towards any of them. She liked being in a low-profile position, learning what she could about the job, occasionally joining student employees and junior staff for coffee or lunch, and generally being thankful for the opportunity to find her bearings in a new environment.

It was late afternoon when Jeffrey knocked on her door and asked if she would come down to his office. She followed him down the corridor, into his office.

The corner office was one of the largest on the floor, well appointed but far from ostentatious. Reference books on many subjects lined the shelves of the three bookcases that stood against one wall. A colourful framed print hung on one wall. Jeffrey told her it was a reproduction from a painting by one of the Group of Seven. Kamala had never heard of them, didn’t know who they were, but was reluctant to ask. The desk itself was remarkably neat and free of clutter, something she noticed whenever she happened to come into the office for one purpose or another. The large picture window behind the desk looked out on a busy section of Portage Avenue, one of the main arteries connecting different sections of Winnipeg.

"I’ve enjoyed reading the preliminary report you’ve done, Kamala. There are a few changes I’ve